


Love like a Soldier

by hailrogrs (heron_holmes77)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Marvel - Freeform, Political Animals AU, marvel AU, stevebucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2678447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heron_holmes77/pseuds/hailrogrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Lying awake at night, sleep tempting his eyes closed but always dancing just out of reach, was a feeling that Steve had grown accustomed to over the past six months. In fact, he was fairly certain he had scarcely slept more than a wink for the better part of that time. He'd memorised every miniscule crack in the ceiling, the way the floorboards groaned as they settled, how Sam always woke up at 3 am religiously every night for the bathroom. Even the assortment of spiders that shared his room, coming and going as they saw fit, had been catalogued in the recesses of his head. </p>
<p>The need to fill it with things, anything and everything, was almost a dying need, an obsession. Perhaps if he filled it with meaningless thoughts and memories and observations then perhaps they would serve to then hide the thoughts of the one person he was attempting to forget.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love like a Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> This is a MCU au loosely based around Political Animals.  
> The idea was inspired by a roleplay that I have been doing with a friend of mine (she plays Steve) so all credit for the Steve in this goes to her though he has been rewritten by me ... if that makes sense. Love you, bro.  
> This is basically a short introductory chapter ... or perhaps even a prologue.  
> Anyways.  
> Apologies for any typos and whatnot.  
> Any comments or critiques or pointings out of errors and so on are welcomed.  
> Thanksss!!

Lying awake at night, sleep tempting his eyes closed but always dancing just out of reach, was a feeling that Steve had grown accustomed to over the past six months. In fact, he was fairly certain he had scarcely slept more than a wink for the better part of that time. He'd memorised every miniscule crack in the ceiling, the way the floorboards groaned as they settled, how Sam always woke up at 3 am religiously every night for the bathroom. Even the assortment of spiders that shared his room, coming and going as they saw fit, had been catalogued in the recesses of his head. 

  
The need to fill it with things, anything and everything, was almost a dying need, an obsession. Perhaps if he filled it with meaningless thoughts and memories and observations then perhaps they would serve to then hide the thoughts of the one person he was attempting to forget. Every day was filled with attempts at distractions; working out, long walks and tube rides, visiting Peggy's grave, watching daytime television, talking about sports with Sam and reminiscing about the army, avoiding the newspapers and nosey reporters. Just anything. Anything that would keep the thoughts of  _him_  at bay.   
  
The fact he still lived in Washington DC, the home of said person, wasn't particularly helping but, as of the moment, he was still trying to find his feet, reclaim the dignity and pride that the media was continuously stealing from him. Sam was doing a brilliant job of beating off the prying phone calls and people knocking at his door - and just generally keeping Steve sane. If it hadn't been for Sam, he wouldn't know where he'd be. Literally, actually. Sam was his first port of call after he'd been fired all that time ago and by God was he thankful for the man's forgiveness and agreeing to put him up for as long as he needed.  
  
Military training dictated that Steve rise with the sun every morning but, to be honest, he often rose long before then to brew some coffee for Sam when the man woke up. It was ritualistic, and oddly therapeutic. Steve had always made coffee for  _him_ back when he'd been his bodyguard. He'd always be singing Steve's praise over his coffee-making abilities. The blond had cut back, though, himself. The memories it brought up were ... still too raw.  
  
As for Sam, though, Steve was more than happy to help the man out any way he could. The guy was a psychiatrist. Passionate about it, too. Helping people had been his calling for as long as Steve had known him. He'd done everything he could to try and help Steve get over 'those few weeks' but not even the shoulder of a good friend was entirely enough to blot out those thoughts. Maybe one day he would be comfortable with being able to think of  _his_  name without his heart constricting within his chest or his stomach clenching and twisting so violently he wanted to vomit.  
  
And so, after a shower and dressing in pair of jeans and a clean, white shirt - he couldn't entirely drop formality, even when he had no reason for it -, Steve went through the usual motions of the morning. The early morning sun had begun to peek through the blinds and Steve had drunk his fourth cup of tea - his caffeine substitute for the moment - and read the newspaper at least five times when he finally heard the muffled ringing of Sam's alarm and the chorus of groans, mumbles and thuds as the man got up.  
  
" **Sleep well**?" Steve asked from behind the paper - he was onto his sixth read - as he heard the sounds of muffled movement in the kitchenette beside him, half an hour after Sam had first awoken.  
" **I'm still beat** ," came the weary response, the clinking of a porcelain mug against a table suggesting that the guy had located his coffee. " **And let me guess** ," Sam continued, taking up his position in his arm chair across from Steve, " **you've been up since the birds started singing**."  
" **Close enough** ," Steve answered, lowering the paper to look over at the guy with a loose smile on his lips.  
Sam tutted and shook his head. " **You look as wrecked as I feel, man** ," he commented, his tone soft. The usual tone of voice he used to gear up to his 'do you want to talk about it again?' speech and, despite Steve knowing he had nothing but the best intentions at heart, he couldn't take much more of it. Not right now.  
  
" **Then I feel sorry for you** ," he countered, " **how's the coffee**?"  
" **Ten out of ten, as always** ," Sam smiled, " ** _how's your tea_**?" He put on a faux-British accent as he spoke, provoking an audible chuckle from Steve.  
" **My tea** ," he began, " **is _great_**."  
" **What is it today**?"  
" **I thought I'd give green tea a go. It being healthy and good for washing out all the toxins and so on**."  
" **Good to shake things up. Recommend it**?"  
" **Not really** ," Steve grimaced, casting the offending cup a side glance, " **I miss coffe** -"   
  
Steve cut himself off with a clearing of his throat but he already knew he'd made a slip up. The unfortunate thing of having a psychiatrist as a friend; they'd psychoanalyse all of your actions out of habit.  
" **Steve** ," Sam began but Steve shook his head, folding up the paper and setting it down with a hint of finality.  
" **Not today, Sam** ," he sighed, " **please**."  
" **Alright, fine** ," the other responded with a raising of his hands, " **not today. But some day, Steve**." He knew better than to press further. It was an unspoken rule not to test Steve in terms of this matter. It was much too sensitive a topic to be dealt with off-handedly.   
  
The two of them kindheartedly traded words with one another for the remainder of that morning, with Steve querying Sam on the appointments he had for the coming day. He loved hearing about some of the stories the man had to tell him. Client confidentiality was still of importance, of course, but it wasn't particularly likely that Steve was going to be spreading rumours about anyone or anything any day soon. That and the trust the two of them shared was insurmountable. Neither would do any wrong to the other. Well, in truth, neither would do any wrong in general ... which was what had outraged Sam so much about the scandal that had, in turn, ended Steve's career as a bodyguard. Steve was just such a good man. His life for the two years prior to the scandal had been dedicated to the safety and preservation of his charge. Everything he had done had been for  _his_  sake. And, in the end, even  _he_  had thanked Steve for it. But ... the situation had escalated way out of the usual and so, when things had taken a turn for the worst after the accident and his charge had incidentally lost six years worth of memories, Steve had taken a step back and allowed things to settle. No use dirtying the water when another chance had been given to make it clean once more.  _He_  was safe, in Steve's eyes. And  _his_  safety was all that ever mattered to him.  
  
When Sam had left for work around 9 am, the blond had proceeded to busy himself with tidying up the man's ground floor apartment. Sam was generally a neat-and-tidy guy - old military habits died hard - but it was almost compulsive by this point; Steve always had to be busying himself with something. It was the only possible thing that could distract him for extended periods of time. It was around 11:30, with having been in the process of making tea, that the buzzer sounded and he looked up in surprise. It had been roughly five days since they're last visitor - whom had only been the elderly woman next door delivering them some pie - and around a week since their last nosy-reporter encounter.   
  
Saying that, Steve was still a little apprehensive as he abandoned his simmering kettle for a moment and moved to answer the door. Whatever possessed him not to check through the peep hole first before opening the door, he'd never know, but, as he threw open the door and released a vaguely withering sigh of, " **Can I help you**?", he felt all the blood in face wash down to his feet at the man currently standing on his door step. He looked slimmer, not as muscular as Steve remembered, nor was he quite as clean-shaven as he used to be. The lack of sleep was evident in his expression - and also because the blond had seen it mirrored on his own face far too many times to count. As the silence stretched on between them, the man eventually cleared his throat and uttered a, " **Hey** ," in an attempt to break the ice, " **I... don't suppose you remember me, do you**?"  
 _The irony in that ..._  
It certainly served to melt Steve's frozen tongue. " **Bucky** ," he breathed, surprise and relief and pain all fighting to take control of his voice and expression, " **of course I remember you, what on earth are you doing here? I thought your parent's** -?"   
" **My parents are the reason I'm here** ," Bucky cut in. Steve couldn't help but very briefly lower his gaze to where one of Bucky's family's tailors had likely cut off the arm of his trademark leather jacket and sewn the left arm shut. The Bucky that Steve recalled wouldn't have let anyone touch it. But then again, this Bucky wasn't quite the same. " **I need to know the truth, Steve, about what happened. Before the accident and the two years you spent as my bodyguard. I want to hear the truth for myself and not filtered through mouths that will lie to their son about his past**."   
  
Steve listened to him, rapt, and thought he saw a small snippet of the fury he recalled in the James he had watched over for twenty-four months. He was in there ... somewhere under all the chaos and confusion ... his Bucky was still in there. Without another word, Steve nodded his head and took a step back, gesturing with an outstretched arm for Bucky to enter and make himself at home.

 


End file.
